Touching Evil
by allg0nemadd
Summary: "Sister Mary Eunice is quite a treasure," he'd said. And she was. It was nothing he could put his finger on (though he'd like to), but she'd broken his skin. The skin that was supposed to be righteous, piteous, holy. The eyes that were for God were now for her, and she was everywhere." Mary Eunice/ Monsignor/ Lana; M; may contain minor violence in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**The Obligatory Spiel: **_All characters, names, places, plots, and many of the lines herein belong to their respective creators and actors. I am merely playing in their fictional world. All credit for creation especially goes to Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuck. Thanks for reading, responses are always appreciated. _

Touching Evil

I: Christmas 1964

"Sister Mary Eunice is quite a treasure," he'd said. And she was. It was nothing he could put his finger on (though he'd like to), but she'd broken his skin. The skin that was supposed to be righteous, piteous, holy. The eyes that were for God were now for her, and she was everywhere. How had he gone these past years hardly noticing her? But she hadn't always been the lascivious, commanding, and tantalizingly frightening figure she was now. He remembered the young, quiet girl with sunshine bangs hiding behind Sister Jude; she only spoke up when asked questions, and he'd overlooked her entirely.

Lately, he couldn't look enough, had even woken up in a drenched sweat, hard and hot, her smell still somehow in his nostrils; he'd seen her so clearly in his dream. He'd felt her as if she really were on top of him, sliding her body along his seductively, forcefully. He could see it, the slender body underneath the wretched black habit that no one had ever seen. In his dream, she'd been wearing a red slip.

…

He shut his eyes for a moment, willing the image to go away and his robes to cover the growing hints of his excitement. Here he was, addressing her personally for what felt like the first time, and all he could do was compliment her morbid excuse for a Christmas tree. She wasn't just making do, she was enjoying the pure perversion of it: her eyes glowed as they swept the toilet-paper strewn branches, pausing now and then proudly on a lock of hair, the hanging 'd called it a 'triumph.' _The things she could make these people do…_

"It reminds me of Marcel Duchamp, and the School of Found Object Art," he blathered, wondering where his train of thought was hurtling, detesting his own voice in her presence. "So clever and forward-thinking… just what's been missing."

"Thank you monsignor," her eyes were darker than he remembered. "I've had these ideas for a while."

Those eyes flickered down his chest, then back up. Had she seen his bulge? He felt suddenly mortified, fought to change the subject. The serial killer. He'd segued into the serial killer. But her eyes didn't dim. In fact, they flickered brighter. He excused himself to Dr. Arden, a sure-cure for his present ailment. But his eyes kept wandering back to her; and she was addressing him.

"I wanna hang the star," she was moving towards him; excited, childish, unpredictable. "Before the entertainment portion of our party! We are watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer!"

She leaned into him slightly, patting his chest, and he sputtered out a response he heard through a fog. The rest of the encounter became a fog, until all he knew was his hands wrapping around hers, and the smell of her hair so close to him. It was the same smell, but how could he have known it? His duties pressed against his conscious, while his desire pressed against his pants.

"I have to go now, Sister," he was whispering, as if saying it silently would erase his obligations.

"Can't you just stay for the beginning of the film? It's one of my favourites," she said, clutching his hand tighter, that childishness in her features again.

He could care less about Rudolph. The only nose he was thinking about was hers, rosy and cute, pointing towards his feet as she bowed her head. At first, he thought she was intimidated by him, ashamed of asking him to forsake his clerical duties to watch cartoons with her. But her spare hand was sliding down his robes, and suddenly clutched the most tender area in a grasp that was at once stimulating, painful, invasive and liberating. He clenched her hand tighter and she raised her head.

"I suppose I can't be selfish on Christmas, can I monsignor?"


	2. Chapter 2

Monsignor Timothy Howard's preoccupation with Mary Eunice raged; furious, heated, throbbing. He ventured on obsession, until it was she he thought about at every moment of every day. _The Lord knew._ How it must look, the recesses of his mind. Unsettling for a common man, repulsive for a man of the Church. The Sister didn't help things; she'd taken up an especial interest in him recently, as if she knew his secret, as if she could smell it.

She'd been kneading dough in the bakery when he'd wandered in for a spare cookie off the hot baking rack. He'd expected one of the charges. He found Mary Eunice, her fingers crawling delicately over the dough, mashing it down into the flour, lifting it carefully, and repeating the process again. She didn't even look up, but he knew she was aware it was him.

"Sister," he said gently, walking right by her but feeling her proximity like delicious static.

"Monsignor," she said to the dough. A slight smile was playing on her lips, her hands playing in the dough.

He knew he should have taken the cookie and left, returned to his office where he could eat it in silence, by himself, his lap hidden under his desk. But he couldn't. Instead, he sat down at a chair across from the table Mary Eunice was working on.

"Might snow," she muttered, flashing her eyes briefly to the ceiling. They caught the light of the fire and flickered something inside.

Monsignor Howard took a final bite of the still-warm sugar cookie, dusted his fingers off and put a leg up over his knee. "That would be pleasant, wouldn't it? I always found snow quite calming."

"I always liked trying to catch it on my tongue," Mary Eunice smiled to the side, pausing from her kneading and suddenly exactly like innocent, sweet girl that he'd known for so long.

She went back to the dough and it was lost in the shadows of the flickering firelight. The Monsignor wondered if she wanted him to leave. She was magnetic.

Absently he though of something to talk about, something to break the silence, in which he could almost hear her soft breathing and feel the warmth of her skin, though she was many feet away.

"Miss Jude," she stated. He thought it was probably a question.

"I had to release her," he said gently, unsure if she was speaking for herself. "She's… well, she's in our care now."

A curious smirk split across her face, but she said nothing.

"In fact," He stood. "I'd best be getting on. I have much to attend to in her absence."

Mary Eunice turned from the dough and leaned against the table. "If you need anything, Monsignor.. any… help…"

He avoided letting his eyes trail down her body to her long, beautiful legs. Instead, her eyes held him. He felt as though he would burst, and miraculously pulled himself out the kitchen with only a nod. He walked back to his office trying to clear the image of himself lifting her up onto the table, sliding up her skirts and taking her, the flour streaking her pantyhose and her hands holding his head…

He walked past Jude's former room and office, and something caught his eye. A soft red cloth was hanging out of a box of her things, and it burned brightly against the bland room as if it were on fire. He picked it up. The fabric was silky and he instantly recognized it. It was the nightgown Sister Mary Eunice had worn in his many dreams, both asleep and awake. But how had he known?

He stared at it with an excited horror. He'd never seen the garment before, yet it haunted him repeatedly.

"Apparently she had quite the secret in her life," her voice was as velvety as the garment. She'd followed him.

"Sister," he smiled, trying to look innocent and lowering the nightgown guiltily. "You startled me."

"I'm just putting away her things," she smiled, setting a stack of black clothing in the box.

She saw the nightgown and her eyes burned again. She walked over to him and picked it up off of his lap. "I wonder who she was fancying when she wore it."

She was holding it up close to her own body. He could see it, the strap falling off her left shoulder slightly as she raised and lowered herself on top of him, her smooth voice whimpering irresistibly.

As if lost in his own mind, he barely noticed or heard her as she lowered herself the chair before him and said something about filling Sister Jude's shoes. He snapped to just as her deep eyes looked up at him and she said, "I'm here to serve you. I want to help you save souls… all the way to Rome."

Her severity and lowered voice, the begging in her eyes… she might as well have told him to take her, because that's what she was implying. She knew the effect she was having, and her eyes were dancing over his trousers., her fingers crawling up them. He felt himself inhale, hoping it would give him the strength to pull away from her, scold her for her actions, tell her how nervous he was and how innocent…

But he said nothing, and instead found his hand sliding the veil off of her head and revealing the golden locks beneath. Her rosary glared up at him from around her neck, and he absently brought his hand down to it and slid it around to her back, hiding the Lord's eyes from the sin he could no longer resist.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Sorry about the shorter length this time, but I hope what it lacks in length it makes up for in content. ;) Warning on this one guys, it gets steamy. Please note the M-rating and read accordingly._

Were God's eyes watching him? Did they see him allow her lips to dance along his, pecking down his chin and landing on his bare chest as her sharp fingernails pushed aside his robes? The thought should have sobered him; instead, he got harder. She was back at his trousers, and this time her hand slipped inside.

"Oh Monsignor," she whimpered close to his ear, "You barely fit into my hand."

Her words were foul, dirty, impure… he thrust himself into her hand and she smiled slyly. Before he registered what was happening, she was pushing him up on top of Jude's desk and, sliding her skirts up to her waist, was straddling his legs, her body crawling slowly and seductively further to his throbbing need. He tried not to notice the soft, milky skin just above her stockings and just below her hips, but his hands were on her warm legs and he hadn't even realized it.

"Have you ever felt anything like this before?" She was cooing, and taking his right hand in hers, moving it beneath her habit. "Soft… wet… silky…" His fingers slid over her most intimate parts, her hand forcing them to stay but he couldn't have pulled them away if he wanted to. Still, he was tense.

"C'mon, Monsignor," she whispered. "It's only fair. I felt yours…"

He gathered enough courage to slowly caress the foreign yet delicious area he'd only been able to dream about. She writhed above him, thrusting her hips forward with his touches, urging him to continue. Her blonde locks fell across her face and chest, and all he wanted was for her to be completely disrobed.

Her right hand moved back to his trousers and she gripped him with an increased amount of feverish desire and desperation. He groaned, gripped the desk, wondered how long he could hold himself before he had to release. Right as he began to think about giving in to a pleasure he'd never been able to achieve for himself, she released him and was repositioning herself above his now-exposed hard on.

Something twitched in his psyche, and somehow he woke up suddenly from his ecstasy, as if she were brandishing a weapon above him suddenly.

"Wait! Stop!" He pleaded, holding her hips. "I can't… no, I can't."

She pouted slightly. "Timothy…" she cooed again. "I know what you want. I know what you need."

"I need the Church," he rasped. "I need Rome. I can't commit this sin, Sister!"

"But you're so _close_," she said as she again wrapped her hand around his hardness. "C'mon, just a few…more…strokes…"

He grunted uncontrollably, squeezed shut his eyes and threw back his head as he felt her hand coax a powerful and rapturous climax from him. His chest was heaving, she was smiling largely, and somewhere, God was frowning on Timothy Howard as He never had before.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: So, again, sorry for a shorter piece. I'm a college student, so I barely have time for a life. Hope that, again, the material makes up for the length. Contains slashy stuff now, so be warned. Or turned on._

Lana couldn't remember exactly when she made watching them a part of her daily routine. She always seemed to be caught in the hallway outside the Monsignor's door when Sister Mary Eunice was in with him. The first time, she'd been walking back from the kitchen with fresh-laundered towels. The Monsignor was panting huskily, and Sister Mary Eunice's hand was jerking up and down in his lap. Lana couldn't figure out why this sight instantly made her wet, or why she slowly pressed herself up to the door and tried to keep her hands outside her dress. It had been a long time…

This appeared to be a daily ritual between the Monsignor and Sister. Lana hardly wanted to consider the motivations of either; she knew there was something Sister Mary Eunice was hiding, and that the Monsignor was never as innocent as he tried to be. She could only watch, fascinated and turned on, while the Sister always led the Monsignor over the edge.

…

The monsignor was losing control quickly. Sister Mary Eunice knew how hard this had been for him, and how powerless he was to resist it. She'd come into his office, cooing about one thing or another, promising him Rome, and eventually ending up on his lap, softly grinding herself into him until he was hard, panting, and enraptured in her scent. His reasoning had failed him, and told him that since they'd already committed sin once, there was no _real _harm in it happening again. But after the fourth encounter, his appetite was insatiable. He wanted to feel more than just her hand around his cock, and her ivory thighs, naked under the black habit pushed all the way to her pelvis, were so deliciously close. Before he knew what he was doing, his fingers slid up her leg and beneath the dark fabric, nestling instinctively over her warm wetness. He felt something of the old Sister Mary Eunice in that soft skin, and in the whispering gasps as he explored her unreservedly. Years of oppression he never knew he was suffering pushed him forward until he hardly realized he was standing, pushing her up against the wall and wrestling with her legs to get them around him.

He felt her soft breath, and raised his head to meet her eyes. There was nothing of the devil in them, and he suddenly felt terrified that Sister Mary Eunice had changed back to herself, and was completely unaware of why they were there together. But with one breath, the innocent sister pleaded with him.

"Take me."

The monsignor let his body lead, and soon found himself enveloped in nothing he could have imagined. The sensation was so powerful, and so fast, that the monsignor lost track of the few seconds it took for him to see stars as he came powerfully, the sister's fingernails sharp even through his robes.

Meanwhile, behind the door, Lana bit her lip and threw her head back as she, too, came. She shivered into herself as her orgasm took her, and Sister Mary Eunice's face and golden loose hair absorbed her mind.


End file.
